


showstopper

by juxtaposed_cat



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Other, allies to friends to lovers, but I got carried away and I guess it’s porn with some plot now, handjobs, semi-public handjobs, was supposed to be a true PWP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 13:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18152630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtaposed_cat/pseuds/juxtaposed_cat
Summary: In which Mirage is saved by Bloodhound during a match and is instantly and intensely into them.





	showstopper

**Author's Note:**

> (See: competency kink.)  
> Oh wow, I got soooo carried away with this. Thank you to the miragehound folks for inspiring this. When I opened up apex ao3 I wanted mirage stuff, but I didn’t know who the fans would pair him with. I wasn’t disappointed. Also, I know jack shit about titanfall, so sorry about that.

Kings Canyon is blisteringly hot today. The pilot _says_ the A/C is going full blast in the dropship, but Elliott thinks that’s some bullshit.  It _has_ to be malfunctioning. He’s got to fan himself to stay cool (and it’s because he’s sweating, _not_ because he looks good, which is always).

“Whew,” he says, much too loudly, glancing between today’s teammates. “Hot as hell, huh?”

Bangalore gives him some intense side eye and asks, tone disparaging, “You got your jetpack on right, kid?” Mirage sneers at her and self-consciously adjusts his jetpack, mocking her under his breath. _I’m not a fuckin’ kid,_ he thinks.

Bloodhound, on his other side, mutters, “The Allfather will bless this hunt,” as they run the back of their gloved hand over their raven’s feathers. Mirage has no idea if they heard him or not.

He actually spares a look over, a _good_ look, not just one of those once-overs, and finds himself wondering briefly what Bloodhound will be like on his squad.  Will they run it solo?  Be a team player?  Guess he’ll find out. For now, though, he spends some time scrutinizing the hat, the gear, the mask, the black bird. Everything that makes Bloodhound the Legend they are. In a way that not much else does, Hound piques his interest.

The raven notices him looking and cocks its head.  It looks past Mirage and straight into Elliott Witt.  For a terrifying moment, he’s afraid that the bird has learned everything about him—his past, his present, his future; his hopes, his thoughts, his fears.  It chills him right down to the bone, but he tries to shake it off.  No damn bird has _that_ much insight.

Overall, after Mirage realizes that neither Bloodhound nor Bangalore are gonna respond to his comment or show any sign of being overheated, he concludes that neither of them are bothered by it like he is. That’s fine, no small talk, whatever. There’s a game to be won, anyway.

 

Bangalore’s Jumpmaster, of course, and she pings the hottest (ha!) place on the map today, Skulltown. As soon as the hatch opens, Mirage is hit in the face by a wave of sweltering heat. For a second, he worries his hologram tech might be affected. Or worse, his hair. But those thoughts are forgotten as their squad jumps out of the ship.

The bones of that enormous husk of a creature surrounding Skulltown seems to yawn some silent curse up at the sky, probably forsaking the creature/cosmic force/inscrutable deity that killed it and left it to rot. At the same time, there’s some sort of unique, chilling grace to it, with the way it’s curled up like some ancient, slumbering beast. But imagine having a shantytown built under the shadows casted by your fossilized rib bones! Pretty disrespectful.  Mirage would be pretty pissed too.  Although he can sympathize with the bones, they’re still real damn creepy.

Surprisingly enough, despite Skulltown being the hotspot, the angle the dropship is coming in at makes the glide over a somewhat difficult one. Bloodhound points out only two other teams landing with them. Everybody else probably went to Artillery. Mirage sends out a couple decoys anyway. Just in case.

They split up on landing; Bloodhound takes the roof of an apartment, and Bangalore takes the attached roof of another, so Mirage has the ground level all to himself.

First blood is announced as soon as his feet hit the ground. No messin’ around today, it seems.

“The hunt begins,” Bloodhound comments, as mysterious as ever. Mirage wonders why they insist on being so damn cryptic all the time.

Landings are always a little frantic, especially when other squads are in the same area. Despite the amount of bravado Elliott puts on as Mirage, there’s still that unshakable fear of “shit, what if they catch me without a gun? Or worse, what if they catch me with a Mozambique?” It’s happened to him enough times that he fears it like the damn plague.

Of course, he thinks as he runs through a couple rooms and scoops up a Flatline and Peacekeeper (what luck!) and eyes that shitty damn shotgun taunting him from a cot in the corner, he’ll never share that compromising bit of info with anyone. Except maybe his mom.

“Hey, eyes up. Hostiles west of—,” Bangalore begins, only to be interrupted by Mirage saying as loudly and obnoxiously as possible, “Mozambique here! Oh, and if anyone finds a precision choke, let me know. Or don’t, I guess that’s cool too.”

Mirage barely hides his snort of laughter. He can just _imagine_ how much Bangalore probably wants to punch him. That’s some payback for calling him a kid.  Ah, she probably won’t pick him up if he goes down, and that’s okay too.  Petty revenge is so _sweet_. Even if it essentially proves Bangalore’s point.

“Okay,” Bloodhound says, not clarifying who they’re responding to.  They follow it up with, “Body shield here.” Shit, Mirage needs that, so he climbs the wall to the roof to go pick it up. He hopes no one saw him stumble a little.  He’ll blame it on the heat. Bloodhound watches him pick it up with those unsettling glass optics of theirs.

After checking his ammo (he’s got enough for now), Mirage figures that it’s time to get this party started.  “Alright, I’m ready. Sending out a decoy,” he says, and with a finger gun pointed in the right direction, a copy drops from the roof and jogs west, toward where Bangalore called out that enemy squad.  Bloodhound follows it from the roofs on the right side, crouched and prowling like some big, lethal cat; Bangalore follows from the left side, her stride confident, thumbing the trigger on her smoke launcher.  With the shade casted on both of them from the tarps hanging about the shantytown, they both look like harbingers of death. Or, as Elliott would rather put— _badasses._ He follows on Bloodhound’s side of the roof, not really wanting to see how Bangalore’s ire could manifest with him in close proximity.

Once the decoy gets to the next section of run-down buildings, he hears someone opening fire with some sort of pistol.  Mirage allows himself a smirk as he jumps down to the ground at the same time Bangalore pops a smoke and Bloodhound tracks their location.

These poor saps aren’t gonna know what hit them.

 

The first squad goes down easy as all hell.

Bangalore downs one with her EVA-8 shotgun point-fuckin’-blank.  They had no body shield, nothin’.  Just a P2020 and a bunch of grenades to their name that they didn’t even get to use.  There was no hesitation to put the end of the barrel up against their head and pull the trigger, ready to ruin the next opponent.  Mirage expected nothing less from her.

As the smoke clears, another squadmate makes the horrible mistake of running out to help their fallen friend, only to get their shields shattered by Bangalore’s hand cannon.  Not a second later, they were taken out by a single sniper shot to the head.  Mirage, afraid that the other team might’ve come up from behind them, instinctively sends another decoy out in that direction.  But when he looks up, he only sees Bloodhound, aimed down the optics of a Longbow. 

( _Hot_ , he thinks for an instant. _Damn good shot._ )

Mirage shoots them a thumbs up and hops through the window in search of the third.  And oh, he finds them, huddled in a corner with a fuckin’ Mozambique (poor guy).  Somehow, they fall for another decoy that he sends running into the room, and they don’t stand a chance once Mirage gets in there.

“Protip: Don’t bring a Mozambique to a gunfight,” Mirage quips as he levels Flatline to the final opponent of this enemy squad.  “You’ll lose every time.”

Bangalore passes him as he’s looting the death box; she claps his back (not unlike his brothers would) and says, “That’s a whole unit. There’s a precision choke in the second box. Double-time it. Don’t know where the other squad is.”

“Thanks?” Mirage says, just a tad wary.  Once he grabs the shield cells and syringes from the box, he goes to check the one Bangalore pointed out.  As he comes near it, though, Bloodhound emerges from a garage to say, somewhat quietly (as if it’s only meant for Mirage) “There is no precision choke in there, friend.”

Mirage looks at them with the most confused look on his face. “What?” he whispers loud enough for them to hear, but it’s the kind of loud whisper that Bangalore probably heard too.  Bloodhound cocks their head, not unlike their bird, and replies, “She lied. I will let you know if I find one for you.”

“Oh.” Mirage could pinch himself for how damn deflated his voice sounds. “Thank you. ‘Preciate it.” And he really does—for someone who comes off as quiet and aloof as Hound does, they do look out for their team.

Bloodhound nods in response—their “no problem”—and starts to climb back up to the roof, presumably to look out for the other squad. Before they can, though, Elliott’s stupid fucking mouth asks, “Hey, where’s your bird?” because the way Bloodhound cocked their head reminded him of it. Mirage might as well have shot himself in the foot and saved them both the trouble.

Fortunately enough, the shitty question doesn’t seem to faze Hound. They finish mantling the wall and peer down at him as they reload their sniper. “Huginn is with us. He will help us track the enemy.”

Mirage takes to reloading his weapons and re-slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Word,” he says oh so eloquently, after his brain passes over completely reasonable responses like Oh, that’s cool, or That’s neat, or even just a simple Okay. Elliott figures that, from this failure (and many others like it), he could start the manuscript of a self-help novel called something like “How to Scare Your Squadmates Away with Your Social Ineptitude,” made by a Legend, for Legends.

Mirage is still reeling enough from embarrassment that he doesn’t realize the announcement of the Ring’s location until Bloodhound says, “Ah, the Ring is distant. Northwest. Our quarry must have gotten a head start.”

“They ran scared,” Bangalore huffs. “We’ve got some time. Let’s make sure we looted right before we hop on that balloon.”

 

The only things of value that came from looting were two Skullpiercer mods. One for Bangalore and one for Bloodhound. It’s fine. Mirage’ll get that precision choke off someone’s death box.

On the way toward the Ring, though, Bloodhound catches sight of the enemy from afar. Lets them know, like a good teammate, but asks them to hold their fire. Mirage hears them mutter some sort of oath or prayer under their breath as they take a knee and scope in. He finds himself holding his breath too.

One shot rings out, and it hits true, shattering a foe’s shield and tearing through some of their health. It alerts the squad, yes, but none of them know where it’s coming from. They’re distracted enough that Bloodhound can get the second shot off—it downs that same enemy, leaving them crawling toward their friends, who are frantically scanning the desert landscape for where the shots are coming from. Mirage finds himself (almost) daydreaming about what he’d do with himself if he was as good at sniping as Bloodhound.

“Send a decoy, Mirage,” Bloodhound breathes, so quiet that he barely hears them from the relative comfort of his own thoughts.

“Got it,” Mirage responds, sending a copy far left of their current position, sort of behind them and at an angle. When that squad sees it, it’ll be far enough away from their position that they won’t see his team.

With the commotion of a downed ally and the panic of not knowing where an assailant is, Bloodhound is able to execute the first downed teammate and knock the shields of the others.  That precise lethality—none of them stood a chance—gets Mirage feeling some kind of way. Whether it’s admiration, envy, awe, arousal, or all of the above, now isn’t the time to think about all that. Despite knowing this, he watches with rapt eyes as Bloodhound singlehandedly ends that opposing squad with the patient hand and practiced expertise of a skilled hunter.

They might really be sent from the gods if that’s what they can do with a damn sniper from hundreds of meters away, Elliott thinks.

“The entire squad is defeated,” Bloodhound says to the two of them as they scope out and reload. Mirage has to remember to close his mouth—he’s gaping like a damn fool.

When Bangalore whistles and tells them, “Nice fuckin’ work, Hound,” sounding genuinely impressed, Elliott shakes himself out of his thoughts. All he can say in response is “Yeah… _wow_ ,” and if he wasn’t holding his weapon he would’ve definitely held his face in his hands. _Way to go, Elliott_ , he thinks sardonically

They encounter no other squads along the way. Even if there were, they wouldn’t catch them off guard (except maybe Elliott). Bloodhound has point and constantly scans the area for activity, and Bangalore watches their six with the vigilance of a seasoned soldier.

And then there’s Mirage, who’s sending out decoys as often as he can, hopefully to fool opposing squads into giving away their positions. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Really, he’s still thinking about the fact that Bloodhound just took out a squad on their own. That’s definitely gonna show up in some highlight reels later.

He’ll blame it on the heat, that’s why he’s hyperfixating on it. He’ll blame the weather on the rush of heat that washes over him when he thinks about Hound’s focused attention as they aimed down sights, their breath of a voice as they whispered some oath to a higher power. He can’t get the sharp sound of each shot out of his mind, nor can he shut out the visage of Hound’s mask and the ominous glint of the eyepieces as the light of the sun reflected off of them. It’s pleasant to think about, but more than a little frustrating.

 

They make it to the next Ring, far before it even has a chance to touch them. They all stop to catch their breaths in a cave overhang just before Bridges. Cool, Bridges. Where all the action happens. The assortment of patchworked rooftops and raised platforming on the buildings in the river and the ravine alike make excellent hiding spots for cover and ambush. An assortment of ziplines make crossing the chasm easy but dangerous, as teams lie in wait below. Additionally, a sloping mountain in the north makes squads on lower ground easy pickings. Overall, this place is the clearing many teams come upon after going from one area to the next. Which makes it a damn war zone.

So, the fact that it’s so quiet at Bridges when they get there should’ve been telling all on its own.

Mirage gets re-lost in thought as his teammates figure out what the next course of action is. Only when Bangalore snaps her fingers in front of his face does Mirage snap out it. He was just admiring Hound’s skill in battle. Nothing weird.

“Hey. That _heat_ gettin’ to you?” she asks, undue emphasis on heat serving as a reference back to his failed attempt at small talk on the ship. “Snap outta it; we’re here to win. Send your decoy out,” she continues, her voice curt.

Mirage doesn’t miss the way Bangalore arches her eyebrow at him, waits for him to notice, and then looks over at Bloodhound, whose back is turned to them, and looks right back at him. You thinking about those snipes? that brow asks, but the set of her jaw and the sneer on her face gives it a whole ‘nother meaning—an implication that Elliott isn’t sure he wants to hear.

Elliott’s taken-aback expression says, I know what you’re really asking and the answer is no, cause those were just really good shots. (Not because I’m into them or anything like that.)

At least, that’s what he thinks their expressions are telling each other. He’s entirely fucked if that’s not the case.

Bangalore just snorts and readies her weapon, turning her attention away from him. Thank fuck. Mirage sends out a decoy without further ado. It hops down to stand on the roof of the nearest building, but it’s not shot at.

“Damn, not even a single shot? What—” Mirage starts to complain, but it’s interrupted by the telltale sound of a Havoc rifle shredding his shields. It’s gotta have a Turbocharger on it, because as soon as he’s yelling, “Shit, they’re behind us,” he’s downed and bleeding out from what’s probably a bunch of laser burns.

Thankfully, his team springs into action. Bangalore pops her smoke even as she’s getting shot at, hopefully to provide some cover before the opposing team pushes up on that advantage. Mirage has no idea where there’s cover he can crawl behind to wait for a revive.

Meanwhile, he can hear Bloodhound using their ultimate ability.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Bangalore shouts, “Laying down cover fire, Hound. Go get ‘em. I’ll flank.” She pings all three of them on the HUD and manages to down one as she loops around. As she’s getting behind them, Bloodhound picks at their shields. Mirage can’t see it well, but it’s probably a stalemate.

Once Bangalore gets behind them, the two are able to down the second hostile. Meanwhile, Mirage feels the ground and drags himself behind a rock for cover. He waits there, bleeding out, hoping that his teammates are okay. When he hears footsteps come up on his location, he’s overcome with relief—but it’s quickly replaced by ice-cold dread.

The last member of that enemy squad found him, and in true last-man-standing fashion, they’re gonna put him down just so they have another kill under their belt. (Not much is worse than comin’ out of a game with no kills.)

Although dying is more of an inconvenience now than anything, it’s still certainly not a pleasant experience. The same fear seizes his heart. The pain from bullet wounds or bleeding out doesn’t go away or become any less intense. Only difference is that he gets to come back from it with a (mostly) clean bill, ready for more.

Again, Elliott Witt puts on a great show for the world as Mirage, but at the end of the day, he’s afraid of the same shit everybody else is. He’s just a little better at hiding it from cameras and prying eyes.

The Legend about to finish him off looks straight down at Mirage as he’s clutching his side and biting his cheek to keep from crying out (gotta keep _some_ dignity when bein’ put in your grave). Levels that smoking pistol right between his eyes and opens their mouth to say something snarky, because of _course_ they would—

But the trigger’s never pulled.  It’s unnerving to watch the way the Legend’s face goes from that smug-ass Gotcha! look to the slack and unseeing visage of death.  The gun falls slack from their fingers.  It’s Bloodhound who guides the corpse to the ground, pulls their blade out, and wipes it on their thigh before sheathing it once more.  Mirage hasn’t been more relieved to see them in his life.

And in true Elliott fashion, he starts running his damn mouth. “Oh wow, thanks. I was kinda uh, really _screwed_ there,” he coughs as Hound moves over to him and rummages through one of their side packs, presumably to find the revive syringe.  Their mask is… really close to his face.  He can’t see their eyes through the optics—instead, they just barely reflect the yellow of his suit.  Still, Mirage feels like they’re watching him intently, and he’s a little conflicted on how that makes him feel.

“Shh, félagi,” they say, their voice oh so gentle, and ooh, that gets a nice tingle goin’ through his body. What’s left of his rational brain chastises him for getting hot and bothered _now_ , of all times (and also thinks, _huh, Anita might’ve had a point_ ), but then he realizes it’s just the syringe with that much-needed pick-me-up. When did they stab that into him? Either way, the pain melts away and Hound helps him to his feet into a crouch and hands him a med kit.

It might be the blood loss talking, but Mirage is sure that the distance between them is a really intimate one.  Close enough that he can pick out the little details of the tassels hanging from Hound’s hat, the fur on their collar, the worn leather of their clothing. By time he realizes he’s probably staring at them, Hound cocks their head (oh, the tassels jangle with their movement, that’s kinda cute), and before they can say something, Elliott interrupts whatever they were gonna say with, “That was pretty hot of you to do. Pick me up, I mean. Kinda romantic.” He could die. Really and truly, Elliott’s barely back on his feet. It would take half a shot from a Mozambique to get him on the ground again.

Hound just stares at him for what feels like an eternity. Those glass eyepieces are like the bleak abyss Elliott wishes he could throw himself headlong into.

When all Hound says is, “Please use the med kit, my friend,” Elliott is overwhelmed with so much relief that he could kiss them—wait, fuck, no, that would make it _so_ much worse, scratch that. At least Hound is under the impression that he’s loopy from blood loss, which makes explaining this whole thing much, _much_ easier, instead of having to frantically make some half-assed story up.

And, oh shit, he hasn’t said anything back yet, he’s just holding the med kit and staring into Hound’s eyes. And he’s still staring. And staring. It’s like they’re having a contest, even though Hound wins by default with the mask.

So, Bloodhound takes matters into their own hands. They open the med kit, take out the syringe, and take his forearm, palm up. Elliott can’t stop thinking about their touch! It’s so damn gentle; not at all what he would expect from the same person who took out an entire squad on their own. They’re staring at each other the whole time, like Hound thinks he’s gonna bolt or something. Come to think of it, their touch is gentle like the way they stroke the back of their hand over their bird’s feathers, calm and soothing.

Some distant part of his mind that _isn’t_ thinking about how Hound’s touch would feel in _other places_ thinks, oh hell, we’re still on the field, what am I doing? Think about this later, you almost got shot to death—

Unfortunately, the rest of Elliott finds it appropriate to groan in sweet relief as all the aches and pains and bleeding in his body is swiftly alleviated by the full healing of the med kit.

“Thanks, Hound. I just, you know. You know how it is when you get knocked down and picked up and you can’t do a thing?” Elliott tells them, already rambling. “Yeah, so uh, thanks. For saving my life, and picking me up, and healing me, like, _wow_ —”

Elliott’s heart hammers _real_ damn hard in his chest when Hound simply puts a finger to his lips. It effectively shuts him right the fuck up. Hound leans in closer (how fast can his heart possibly beat?) as they discard the med kit and murmurs, “Shh,” like they’re calming a flighty animal. And Elliott stays both shushed and intrigued in equal measure.

As Elliott gets his shit together, checks his ammo, and wipes blood off his pants, he stays just about as shushed as humanly possible. Which is saying a lot.

Bangalore gives him another _look_ when the two of them pop out of cover. This time, Mirage returns it with a scowl and a small shake of his head. He hopes it says, _it’s not what you think it is._ (But it probably doesn’t.)

Oh, he’s so fucked.

 

 

Despite their great performance earlier in the game, it’s the killer squad of Wraith, Lifeline, and Pathfinder that finally do them in. Quickly and unceremoniously, too. With their guns fully kitted and the team decked out in purple gear, Mirage’s squad hardly stood a chance.

For the team, it’s a wholly disappointing end to what was a pretty good game. A shame.

For Elliott, it means he doesn’t have to continue getting distracted by Bloodhound on the field (for today), and that’s great. He’s gotta count his blessings somewhere.

 

 

 

Once he’s allowed to leave the medbay, Elliott heads over to the lounge. He’s looking for Makoa. The big guy’ll probably pop up in here at some point, so Elliott figures he’ll just wait. In the meantime, he grabs a complimentary sports drink and sprawls out on a big bean bag. He’s there long enough with no one else to distract him, so his thoughts to wander back to the match.

Quickly though, his thoughts return to Bloodhound—particularly, Hound touching him outside the context of the Games. He thinks it’d be nice, judging by the all too gentle way they touched him back in the arena. And not all of the thoughts are…chaste.  And for some reason, that’s what reminds him that there are always _cameras_ in the arena. Always people watching.

Aw, fuck. Somehow it only _just_ occurs to him that that whole fiasco with Hound in the arena is gonna be on the forefront of the reporters’ questions. He can hear them all now, all “What do you have to say about your performance today?” _Nothing much; you win some, you lose some._ “You seemed distracted on the field today. What was on your mind?” _Oh, it was just hot. Messes with my head, you know?_ “Bloodhound saved your life. Everyone is talking about the way you looked at them as they healed you. Any comments on that?” _Nope, don’t have anything to say at all, actually. Blood loss really messes you up. It’s really not what it looks like._ (Except that it is. Elliott’s got himself a bit of a puppy crush on his hands, but he’ll die again (or have another near-death experience) before he’ll admit it.)

His previously pleasant thoughts are both sobered and soured by the reality of the plagues of reporters he’ll probably have to make up some answers for. Blood loss is looking just as excellent an excuse as any at this point.

When Elliott looks over to the door sliding open, he expects to see the huge frame of Makoa. Instead, Elliott’s heart skips a beat when Bloodhound enters the room, looking around as if they’re searching for someone. His thoughts about the media are swiftly forgotten. Of course the one person he didn’t want to see (for a couple reasons) would show up.

Aw, fuck, they’re probably here to chastise him about his _really poor_ awareness. If he’d been paying attention, Wraith’s squad wouldn’t have been able to get the jump on them like they did. He wouldn’t have been downed at all at Bridges if he wasn’t distracted, and the team could’ve gotten moving faster if Elliott hadn’t wasted time gawking at Hound. Really, all the failures of his squad were mostly due to him. If Hound wants to yell at him about it, that’s fine.

Hound catches sight of Elliott, who’s stretched out on that bean bag, and quickly makes their way over to him. But when Hound kneels down to his level and says, “I was looking for you. Are you all right?”—

That’s not what Elliott was expecting. Hound even puts their hand on his shoulder, staring at him like they did when they revived him in the field.

“Y-yeah, I mean, I’m fine, all my bones are here, nothing got messed up. I’m good!” Elliott says quickly, in an attempt to deflect any attention from the fact that his cheeks are definitely getting red.

“That is fortunate,” Hound says slowly, in a sort of “yeah right” tone. Like they don’t really believe him.

Even though Elliott plays well as the suave and sociable Mirage, he can be real shit at talking to people. (Especially people he might have some sort of crush on.)

Elliott eventually gets uncomfortable from the way Bloodhound is silently staring at him, like they’re expecting him to elaborate or something. After a period of awkward staring, Elliott asks, “Uh, Hound? Why—why are you staring at me? Not that I have a problem with you being here or, or looking at me, or anything,” and manages to make himself flush more out of sheer embarrassment with how pathetic it sounds.

“I was…” and it’s only now that Elliott picks up on how ill at ease Hound seems. Their body language is a little tense. “You seemed… off, in the field. I wanted to speak with you. See if you had fallen ill.”

“I mean, I’m, I’m feeling fine. Really, Hound. ‘Preciate you looking out for me, though.”

Another brief period of awkward silence passes before Elliott offhandedly adds, “Guess I owe you dinner, huh? For reviving me.”

Even with the mask, Elliott can guess that Hound looks pretty taken aback. Unless they’re really just that tense being around him (which makes no sense). Either way, they say, “I suppose so,” which is not the response he was expecting from them.

They even back away a little (enough for Elliott to breathe normally again) and say, “There is a diner open not too far from here. Are you hungry?”

 

 

That’s how they find themselves at a hole-in-the-wall diner a few blocks away from the Lounge. Of course, they deliberately avoid drawing attention to themselves, since Elliott isn’t sure how Hound would feel if the press caught wind of them going out to eat together. Honestly, _Elliott_ isn’t sure he wants the media’s spotlight on this whole thing (especially since his heart thumps a little harder in his chest the closer they walk alongside him). He’s sure the media would manage to spin some wild story up, like they’re secret lovers or something like that.

It’s actually easier to hide among the public as some sort of celebrity than one might think. People walk the streets—especially the streets near the Lounge—with replicas of Bloodhound’s mask and hat, Mirage’s jumpsuit, Gibraltar’s shield. Sure, if anyone were to look at Elliott long enough, they’d probably realize it was the real deal. But if anyone looked at Hound, they would probably assume that they were some sort of hardcore cosplayer. Would probably compliment the accuracy of the outfit, too.

They sit across from each other at a little table next to the windows. The table is hardly large enough to hold two plates comfortably. The chairs are even more pathetically small and the leather of the seat is ripped in places. Both of them look uncomfortably cramped in their chairs, but Hound somehow seems to make it work better than Elliott can, who continues to shift uncomfortably. Hound passes the menu to him after sparing it a moment’s glance. Elliott eyes them conspicuously.

“You already know what you want?” he asks. They look at him, shifting in their little chair.

“Yes,” they reply. The way it’s said seems to carry some incredulousness to it, like they’re surprised that Elliott‘s even asking.

“Okay,” he says, still unconvinced, but looks and the menu and decides what he wants.

 

The food arrives relatively quickly, seeing as only one plate was ordered. Elliott chows down on a burger while Hound just casually sips on a drink through a straw. He catches himself watching them—not because the sight is weird in a bad way, but because seeing Bloodhound, enigmatic and ruthless Champion, sipping a drink through a straw is almost as night and day as it can get. It’s almost cute, especially contrasted with the way they took out their opponents on the field.

And Elliott finds himself thinking all over again about how _soft_ Hound can be, despite that ruthless, mysterious demeanor. He experienced it firsthand when they revived and healed him.

He watches Hound far too closely while he finishes his meal, and fails to notice how Hound is watching him too.

 

 

The sun is setting by time they leave the diner. As usual (especially after the Apex Games happen), the streets are still relatively busy, full of people bar-hopping. (They do it for many reasons, but one is so there’s a higher chance they’ll get to have a drink with a Legend.)  Almost immediately after the doors close behind them, Hound brushes their fingers along his arm and taps lightly, sending a pleasant shiver down Elliott’s spine.

“The media is here. Come with me,” they say, already ducking into the nearest alleyway.

Elliott follows without a second thought. Thankfully, it’s completely empty, and there’s a nook a little farther down the way that completely conceals them from anyone who decides to look down the alley. Although _he_ didn’t see the telltale signs of the press being nearby, he’s sure that Hound has much more experience dodging them. He trusts their judgement and ability to get where they need to go without being detained by the press.

It’s darker in the alleyway, of course, but there’s enough light from the streetlights around for Elliott to see well enough, as soon as his eyes have adjusted. Besides, with the mask, Hound probably has no trouble seeing.

Hound rests against the wall once they get to that nook down the way and stays there for a few minutes, just _watching_ Elliott. They say nothing the whole time, and it almost looks like they’re sizing him up. He’s about to say something about it when Hound steps closer to him, and closer, and closer, until Elliott’s back is against the wall and Hound is filling up all the space in front of him.

Bloodhound looks at him then, pins Elliott with this look that’s got conviction in it. Says, “I believe I know what it is.”

“What?” Elliott asks, confused, but far too intrigued by the way Hound’s got him back against a wall, caught off guard by how close their mask is to him.

“I know when I am being watched,” Bloodhound continues, distorted voice sliding just a bit lower, a bit quieter; there’s no ambiguity in that tone. “It must be something about me.”

Before Elliott can brush it off, deny it, laugh, _anything_ , Hound presses closer and slides their hand down between the two of them, deft fingers tracing the outline of the bulge in his jumpsuit. It’s gotten to the point now that his dick responds every damn time Hound gets close to him. Elliott forces out a whine from between his teeth, which certainly doesn’t help his case.

“Hound, I—f-fuck, that’s—”

“So I was right,” Bloodhound murmurs, tone nearly reverent, and hell, it sounds like it’s right next to Elliott’s ear. That gets him going too—Elliott whines some breathy noise and rolls his hips into Hound’s hand. They hum a sound of approval and rub him through his pants properly, creating some delicious friction, and Elliott just about loses it. He tips his head back, closes his eyes, and chases the feeling.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Elliott breathes. He has no idea where to put his hands, isn’t sure if Hound would be alright with the contact. He grasps at the wall, runs his hands through his own hair, and only after exhausting other possibilities does he start toying lightly with the assorted belts and packs on Hound’s person, keeping his hands busy. They don’t seem to mind it.

It’s actually overwhelming, how good this feels, even though it’s just Elliott dry humping Hound’s hand. Much to his dismay, Elliott doesn’t realize that he actually _says_ that out loud until Hound laughs—actually fuckin’ laughs against him (it’s a small thing, easy to miss if you haven’t been watching them like Elliott has).

“Is that so?” they ask, that hint of a laugh still in their voice; then they start to draw back. “Would you like me to stop?”

“No no, don’t,” Elliott says, far too quickly and quietly, like a desperate plea. He grabs Hound’s free forearm lightly only to realize that they were backing away just to get a good look at him. He probably looks like a _mess_ ; lips parted, hair messy, eyes half-lidded. “Please. I’m good. As long as you are too, ‘cause I’d hate if you felt obli—o-oblig—like you have to do this for me.”

Bloodhound hums again, and they seem to be interested at the _very_ least. Thankfully, they don’t stop.

“Even like this, you still talk so much,” they murmur, like Elliott wasn’t meant to hear it. He’s not sure if he should apologize or not, and the apology about to bubble out his mouth instead turns into a groan at a particularly satisfying roll of his hips. But when Hound adds, “It’s rather endearing,” as an afterthought, Elliott finds his cheeks and ears reddening even more fiercely.

Hound falls silent, and the only sounds for a moment are of Elliott’s poorly-bitten-back moans and swears. Just when he starts to worry that he might finish in his pants, Hound moves both hands to the belts around his hips, resting them there. Elliott doesn’t know if he should sigh in relief or complain about the loss.

“May I…?” Hound trails off awkwardly, uncertainty in the lightness of their touch, and for some reason, that really sets Elliott off, sending heat blooming all through his body.

“Uh—y-yeah, please, I’d love that, that’d be great,” Elliott stutters as he clumsily undoes a couple belts and unzips his jumpsuit enough for Hound to get at him, which they seem pretty interested in doing. A good thing, Elliott figures, especially since he’s _sorta_ fallen head over heels for them.

Instead of getting right to it, Bloodhound takes a glove off—much to Elliott’s shock (and awe), as he’s never seen Hound take _anything_ off before—and takes him into their hand, the drag of their palm smoothed by precome. It’s just on the right side of rough, nothing painful, and the pace is so steady and hard and _good_ that Elliott can feel his toes curling with every firm stroke.

“ _Fuck_ , Hound,” Elliott groans, “ _wow_ , I—oh hell, that’s good. Don’t stop, please.”

“I do not plan to,” Hound murmurs in reply as they squeeze just the right way on the upstroke, and _fuck,_ can Elliott‘s voice go any higher? More importantly, he’s not going to last too long at this rate.

Elliott’s too busy trying to keep his voice down and trying to last for as long as he can, ‘cause this is probably never gonna happen again. This’ll make for excellent fuel when he jerks off again, though.

“What was it for you?” Elliott hears Hound ask him. He only manages a _huh?_ that comes out sounding more like a moan. He’s hardly listening; he’s much more focused on the teasing twists of Hound’s hand than any trivial questions.

“Was it my skill in battle? Or was it reviving you?” they ask, and shit, the way they’re moving their hand is turning Elliott’s legs to jelly. He isn’t normally used to getting interrogated during handjobs, but he’ll make an exception for Hound. Honestly, he understands _why_ they’re asking, because all this is pretty out of the blue, but fuck if he knows the answers to _anything_ they’re asking. Besides, how do they expect him to give a coherent response when they’re working him this well?

While he means to relay this information to Hound, his idiot brain decides to say, “I _love_ your voice,” instead. And that _definitely_ wasn’t what Elliott wanted Hound to learn about him today, on top of _everything else_ they learned about him today. Hound doesn’t give anything away with their body language, but their hand strokes him just a little harder, their grip holding just a little tighter.  Elliott can’t help but rock his hips into each perfect stroke from base to tip.

“ _Hound_ ,” Elliott gasps. He’s getting shaky, and pressure’s building up real quick in his stomach. A shudder goes up his spine as Hound speeds up their movements. “I’m—I’m close. Real close.”

“Go ahead, let go. I want to see,” Hound tells him, and who is Elliott to deny them?

Elliott comes with a full-body shudder and a moan to match, getting Hound’s hand all but covered in it. They don’t stop stroking him until he squirms from overstimulation; and when he does, they back away a little, pull out a cloth from a pouch, and wipe both of them off.

When it’s over, Elliott sags against the wall, breathing hard. His head is tipped back against the wall, looking up at the sky. Bloodhound actually goes to help hold him up, but stop once they realize that he’s fine on his feet. Elliott is pleasantly surprised at how close Hound is staying, and even more surprised at how they’re helping him zip up his jumpsuit and buckle his belts again.

“Shit,” Elliott says, realizing he forgot about them. “Can I uh… um. Do anything for you? Don’t wanna, you know, leave you hanging,” he offers, flopping a hand in no specific gesture. To his ears, it sounds real pathetic. He always manages to embarrass himself with what comes out of his mouth. Way to go, Elliott.

For the second time, Bloodhound laughs. It’s louder this time, so Elliott can hear it a little better. It’s distorted by the mask, of course, but it’s a little raspy and uneven, sorta like they’re self-conscious of their laugh, or not used to it. It’s a little goofy, too, like the kind of laugh that happens when something really funny happens unexpectedly. Elliott finds it cute, and knows he’s screwed for what, the third time today?

“I appreciate it, friend. But no thank you. I am fine.” Before Elliott can protest, they add, “Just pay it forward.”

Elliott, still a little sluggish from orgasm, says, “Okay. I can do that.”

 

That evening, Hound walked with Elliott back to his place, dodging more reporters who had probably caught wind of them eating at that hole-in-the-wall place away from the Lounge. It was late when they got back, so Elliott offered his bed to his mysterious friend—not being forward, of course. Either way, they politely declined and gratefully took the couch instead. He took the other one. They chatted until Elliott fell asleep, but it was more like him chatting Hound’s ear off.

But they do talk, and they learn some stuff about each other. Elliott learns that Hound has more than one raven. They speak fondly of at least four that they have: Huginn, Muninn, Geri, and Freki. It’s clear that Hound enjoys talking about their birds, as this is the most Hound has ever spoken around him. It’s pretty _cute,_ Elliott thinks, how passionate they are.

They also ask him about his holotech as he takes it off and sets it aside for the night, and Elliott tells them how his mother developed it so he could compete in the Games. He deliberately avoids talking about his brothers, since that would be a surefire way to ruin the nice thing they have going here.

Elliott asks stupid things as he starts to drift off to sleep. He asks Hound what their favorite color is, if they’ve ever killed anyone with a Mozambique, if they’ve ever accidentally drank spoiled milk, if any of their birds ever shat on their head, other off-topic shit like that. Looking back, he would definitely be embarrassed by the dumb shit that came out of his mouth.

 

When Elliott wakes in the morning, Bloodhound isn’t there. They probably had something to do or somewhere to go. Or they may have been saving both of them face; if reporters caught wind of Hound staying at Elliott’s place overnight, they’d have a field day coming to conclusions on what that might mean. It didn’t hurt his feelings. It was pretty damn surprising to him that Hound decided to stay in the first place.

As he rolls off the couch to heat up some leftovers, he finds a note on the kitchen counter.  

“Thank you for the wonderful evening,” it reads. “Consider your debt to me repaid. Also, I took your leftovers. See you soon, BH.”

Well, damn. He was looking forward to those porkchops. But that’s all right. At least Hound ate.

Elliott pours himself a bowl of cereal and gets ready for the day ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! <3  
> This wasn't finished when I decided to post, but I couldn't wait any longer, lmao. there's more to come (if i ever finish it). also, thank you to clefaiiiry for being my personal cheerleader!
> 
> //edit (4/15): I promise I haven’t forgotten about this. I’ve been working on the second part! my classes have been killing me, but it’s spring break now! hoping I’ll be able to get part two out to you all this week. thank you for all the love; it means sooo much. your kudos and comments keep me inspired <33


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